


Low Stakes

by Isis



Category: 3:10 to Yuma (2007), Tombstone (1993)
Genre: Crossover, Gambling, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-14
Updated: 2008-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 15:20:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/pseuds/Isis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what comes of a wager with a sawbones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Low Stakes

Ben sauntered into the private room. When Holliday had suggested the stakes, it had seemed a soft bet. Cheaper than gold, and anyway, Ben hadn't intended to lose.

Wasn't his fault that queens weren't high enough. Sometimes, that was the way the cards broke.

He wondered what scheme Holliday had in mind, what kind of swindle he wanted to propose, that he had to go about it like this to guarantee Ben would listen to him. Didn't matter. Holliday had won, and Ben would hear him out.

Holliday strolled past him to the chair by the window, carefully arranging his limbs as he sat. "Well," he said in his soft, hoarse voice. He coughed a few times, then delicately dabbed at his mouth with his cloth. "Well. Ben Wade."

Ben took his watch out of his pocket and held it up so Holliday could see its face. He placed it on the bedside table. "An hour of my time. Clock's ticking."

"Very good. Remove your clothes."

Ben frowned. "Thought you were a dentist."

"Among other things."

"Hold on, Doc. You want to practice surgery, do it on someone who's a little closer to dyin'."

"I promise no permanent damage will be done," said Holliday, and the edge of his mustache quivered. The bastard was laughing at him. "Your clothing, if you please?"

"So this is what comes of a wager with a sawbones," Ben grumbled as he started unbuttoning his vest. Holliday leaned against the arm of the chair, watching him disrobe. "There," said Ben when his breeches were on the floor. So he was standing naked in a whore's bedroom; he'd done that before.

"Very good. Now take yourself in hand." Ben stared. "Come, now. I want to see you pleasure yourself."

Jesus Christ. Didn't see that coming. Pretending an ease he did not feel, he glanced pointedly down at his soft prick. "A little difficult in my present state."

"Close your eyes and imagine the lovely Stella," said Holliday. Stella was the bar girl whose room they had borrowed.

Ben made a show of closing his eyes, then opened them again. "No luck, I'm afraid. I'm used to a more, ah, personal approach."

"My dear Mr. Wade. Why didn't you say so?" Fluidly Holliday rose from the chair and crossed the room, and damn it all to hell, he should have known better than to try to bluff a gambler. "You may wish to close your eyes and imagine Stella anyway," said Holliday, and his mustache twitched again. His eyes twinkled.

But Holliday didn't go right for his prick. Instead Ben felt the whisper of his fingertips along the line of his back, cool and dry as paper, sliding to his waist and then gently across his hipbone. He closed his eyes, but didn't think about Stella. He thought about Holliday, slender and coughing behind him, and that was what made him rise.

Holliday's fingers played across his skin as though they were playing a piano. When he palmed Ben's prick in his cool hand Ben wanted to gasp, push into it. Instead he concentrated on remaining still, on betraying nothing with his body or with the sound of his breath. Like he was about to do a job, and he had to stay calm, even as he was focusing on the coach, on the approaching train, on the hand curving around his balls and the soft puffs of air on his neck.

Suddenly the hand was gone, and his eyes flew open in time to see Holliday lower himself into the chair again.

"Continue, please."

And he had no choice, did he, the man had won, so Ben looked him in the eye and licked his palm once, then grasped his prick and pulled with long, harsh strokes, imagining it was still Holliday's hand on him, and his gaze was still locked with Holliday's when he spent into the air.

"There," he said, when he had his voice back. "Is that what you wanted, then?"

"Couldn't have asked for better."

"Fine." He reached for his clothes.

"Oh, no, Mr. Wade." Holliday was on his feet again, moving toward him. Past him, to the nightstand. Where Ben's watch lay. He lifted it to his face with elegant white fingers. "By my reckoning we still have forty minutes."

Ben raised an eyebrow, gestured toward the spatter on the floor. "I'd say I'm finished, here."

Holliday laid his watch carefully on the nightstand, then turned to him and smiled. His hand moved to his vest and began undoing the buttons. "Perhaps you are. But I am not."


End file.
